raspberry patch
On Sundays, the last Bigfoot
leaves his mournful burrow,
secret life expanding
in Sunday's quiet
to invite footsteps
through the daylight,
across the small world,
and into the raspberry patch.

As Bigfoot plucks the berries
—ripe today, spoiled tomorrow—
the loss of the old Bigfoot gangs moves
not further into the past
but closer to his body.
Right here the Great Family,
musky beloveds, guide his hairy hands
deftly among the thorns. Berries roll
into the palm, and back
between two fingers. Rising into the light
to meet him, they release their redness
over his tongue, and die like Bigfoots
teaching him again
how to eat.